The Beginning of Gaston
by SS Dispatch
Summary: Have you ever wondered why Gaston is the way he is? This tale reveals the boy behind the man, and what lead him to his inevitable demise. Rated T for some violence.


**A/N: This story was originally featured in "The Final Chapter" as one of the many one-shot chapters. Mostly inspired by the 2017 film, but most of the information within the story is completely created on my own part and not mentioned in any of the films (as far as I know).**

* * *

"I said," Leon was grinning in a way that clearly indicated he was anything but happy, "Get me my DRINK." He threw his empty mug at his wife in the corner. It missed. His skin was red from the alcohol already in his blood, his blue eyes bloodshot, and his earthy brown hair matted to his head. It was hard to believe he ever looked handsome at all.

"Yes, yes Leon." His wife Marie said anxiously, running to the kitchen to fill the flagon. She went toward the large barrel of liquor that they kept around in the house. Her black hair clung to the sweat around her face, and her skin was pastier than usual. Once the mug was full she carefully walked it over to him, careful not to spill. The last time that had happened it had hardly been a pretty picture. Leon took it out of her hand aggressively, sloshing some on his pants without noticing as he put the drink straight to his mouth. She scuttled away from him quickly, knowing that sometimes his drunken anger could be extreme enough to cause him to lash out at her even if she did as he asked. She headed toward the back of their small cottage, noticing that her son had witnessed the whole incident again from the hall. She didn't say anything, afraid that Leon would hear. She instead scooped up her small son and carried him into his bedroom, gently resting him down onto his feet again and whispering softly to him. "Gaston, my love, you shouldn't have to see that. I'm so sorry. Can you do me a favor son?"

"What mother?" He asked, his voice still young and high pitched. He was only seven.

"Remember that women are people too."

* * *

Gaston always saw her when he was walking to school. She was as much a part of this town as everyone else, and had been here since she was a little girl. But she hadn't been born here, and it was obvious. She wouldn't spend all day at home cooking and cleaning like the other girls, she would take her horse and ride out of town into the surrounding fields and hills. Gaston did not understand the girl at all. He thought she was a fool. But he couldn't deny her beauty. He was staring out the window of his schoolhouse blankly. The teacher slammed his ruler on Gaston's desk, causing him to jump a foot.

"Gaston! Get your head out of the clouds. Foolish boy. You're supposed to be learning how to be a man. And being a man means being educated. Have you read Chaucer yet?" The schoolmaster asked, pointing to the book that was on Gaston's desk. All the other boys were presently struggling through it, although a few had paused to watch the commotion taking place. Gaston shook his head. He had no interest in reading. He had a hard time comprehending the words. When he would try to read it was as if the spaces between the words, sentences, and paragraphs just disappeared and the whole page became an inky blur. Even when he could manage to keep the ink in its proper place in his mind, he took a long time to read. And the schoolmaster always expected them to read fairly quickly in class. Everyone else could read a chapter of Chaucer by the end of the day, except Gaston. One chapter would take him multiple days, sometimes even a week if it was particularly long.

The schoolmaster sighed dismissively down at Gaston, "So what shall it be today boy? The knuckles or the rear?"

He considered this seriously. If it was his knuckles he would have a hard time writing so he might be able to have a good excuse for not practicing his handwriting, but he also wouldn't be able to clean at home. Cleaning was supposed to be a girl's job, but when one's mother was dead and had no sisters there was no other option. Especially when one's father was … unhelpful. It would cause him great pain to have open wounds while washing. But if his rear was beat he wouldn't be able to sit. He sighed and whispered, "Knuckles." The schoolmaster nodded and gestured for Gaston to follow him to the front of his room. He did.

He put his hands on the teacher's desk and took a deep breath before the thin long rod the teacher used as a pointer fell to his knuckles. It split the skin almost immediately. Gaston didn't flinch. He instead stared the class down. Some of the boys had been looking at him in curiosity. He would show them that he was brave, that he was tough. That no matter what came at him, he could handle it. He didn't let a single tear fall, didn't even make a noise as the teacher beat his knuckles ten times. Once for each finger. The boys were all shocked by Gaston's lack of reaction. One boy seemed to be feeling the pain for Gaston, and was trying not to show it. LeFou was cringing in the corner of the room, flinching at every smack of the pointer.

The teacher put his pointer down on the chalkboard and dismissed class. They had been at the tailend of the school day anyway, and it would appear that the physical beating had worn the schoolmaster out more than it had Gaston. As he went back to his desk to gather his things, he didn't notice that drops of blood were falling from his knuckles to the floor, staining the hardwood. As the boys streamed out of the schoolhouse, LeFou scrambled up behind Gaston and muttered to him, "That was really brave, Gaston. I never could have done that. Does it hurt?"

"Of course it hurts, how could it not?" Gaston said angrily, pushing through the crowd away from LeFou. He didn't have time to listen to LeFou's grovelling. He had never really liked the boy. He was always tagging along behind him like a little pest. But at the same time, Gaston couldn't rightly push him away entirely, he was his only friend. Sure, all the other boys in his class seemed to like him enough, but none of them actually wanted to talk to or play with him. Twelve year old boys were the worst.

"If it makes you feel any better, I can't really read either. The schoolmaster's never been kind to me either."

"I don't see him beating your knuckles. So no, it doesn't make me feel better." Gaston said bitterly before storming home in a fury, not looking back once at LeFou.

He barrelled through the front door of his home to see his father sitting in front of the fireplace crying softly to himself. This broke Gaston's wave of anger and replaced with an overwhelming sense of shock. Never once had he seen his father cry. Not even when his mother had died suddenly of consumption a few years ago. He had watched her die and not looked the least bit unhappy about it, but now he was suddenly crying. What possibly could have brought this on?

"Father?" Gaston said as gently as he could. His voice was slowly deepening these days, and had a tendency to crack at the most inappropriate of times. This was one of those times.

His father looked up at him, his sorrow gone and replaced by fury. "What the hell are you doing?!" He shouted as he got up and walked toward his son, who backed away from him quickly. "Nothing, father, nothing!"

"Exactly! Shouldn't you be out feeding the hens or cleaning the house like the woman that you are?" Leon roared, grabbing Gaston's arm and yanking him out of the corner he had backed into. He slapped his son across the face ruthlessly. Gaston knew it was pointless to argue but he couldn't help himself, "Father, I was going to! I just got home!"

"And your first thing to do was spy on your father?" Leon bellowed in his son's face, letting go of his arm and grabbing at his shirt instead. He picked the boy up off the ground a bit in this motion. Gaston tried to pull away but was unsuccessful. "Look at you, scrawny little brat."

"Please, let me down!" Gaston pleaded, his voice cracking.

"Pathetic little girl." His father said, his voice becoming steadier, in a way that sounded far more terrifying than the yelling. He dropped his son to the floor and kicked him swiftly in the stomach. The air seemed to fly out of Gaston quicker than he had imagined possible. He had felt this before, but it didn't mean it stung any less. His father continued to beat him for a few minutes. When he finally stopped, he looked down at his son and laughed. Gaston was crying. He was in agonizing pain, and his body and mind were overwhelmed with it. "Look at you, foolish cry baby. Men don't cry, son!" He said loudly, sounding slightly insane. He picked his son up and brought him to his feet, making him look his father in the eye. "You're just like your mother: weak, emotional, and useless. Why was I cursed with a son like you?" Before Gaston could respond, Leon punched him hard across the face. Gaston collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

* * *

"Oh my gosh, Gaston!" Someone spoke. Who was it? Gaston slowly opened his one eye, the other refusing to. It was swollen shut. He saw feet headed in his direction. He was lying on the cold, hard dirt road. His body screamed when he tried to push himself up, so he fell back down instead. The feet finally reached him and knelt beside him. He looked up, and it was none other than Belle. Her hair was falling all around her face, and she looked so scared. "What's happened to you Gaston?" She asked.

He didn't say anything. Instead he slowly tried to sit up. The slower process allowed his body time to adjust without collapsing on itself again. "I'll be right back," Belle said before running out of sight. Gaston didn't know what to make of it. He had never talked to her before, except perhaps in passing during the weekend market. But he knew that he never was properly introduced to the girl. But he took her word that she was going to be coming back, so he leaned against the wall behind him. It occurred to him that it was the exterior wall of his cottage. He tried to piece together what happened, but he had completely blacked out after his father punched him. He was sure that his father had thrown him out on the street. And had nobody bothered to notice until now? He looked up at the sky. It was early morning. Very few were up yet, nobody had started their day except Belle it would seem. He had probably been lying on the ground all night, looking half dead, and yet nobody had had the decency to help him.

Belle returned in a few short minutes, carrying a pail of water and a basket. She set them down beside him. She dipped a small rag from the basket into the warm water and squeezed the water back out. Without any words being exchanged between them, she went about cleaning the blood and dirt off of him. She wet the rag again and wrung the water out, but this time she held it out to Gaston, "Hold it to your eye, it'll help the swelling. Keep it there until I say so." Gaston stared at her briefly before taking the warm rag and doing as she said. She reached into her basket and handed him a hunk of bread, "Eat." It wasn't a request. He took it without so much as a thank you and devoured it.

"What happened?" She asked quietly, watching his movements for any signs of pain.

Gaston glanced at her and looked away. He didn't like that she was seeing him like this. Men were supposed to be tough, not weak and beaten like he was. And it was worse that it was the prettiest girl in the village who was witnessing his pain. "None of your business."

Belle seemed to be taken aback but didn't say much. She just pushed the basket toward Gaston and said simply, "The rest of it is for you. Use the warm towel as a compress a couple of time a day and the black eye should go away soon." She stood and walked away from him, her arms folded in irritation.

Gaston watched her go before glancing inside the basket. The remaining loaf of bread, some brie, and a lot of cherries filled the basket. He smiled a bit, grateful for how she had helped him but still bitter that it had had to be her. He eventually got to his feet, taking the basket with him as he headed back into his home. Sure enough, his father was nowhere to be seen. He was probably lying in his bed, resting off his hangover. Gaston placed the basket of food down on the kitchen table, putting the now cool rag in the sink for later. He did his best to clean the place up before his father awoke. He swept and washed the floor, dusted the wood furniture, and picked up all the broken pieces that always remained after his father drank. It was a teacup that had been smashed on the floor this time. His mother had collected them from a man who sold them in town. But his father had destroyed so many of them already. It used to hurt Gaston to see them broken on the floor like this, but now he had grown used to it.

Gaston hardly had any fond thoughts of his mother left anymore. He had had so many of them overshadowed by his father's slanderous words about her. When they had buried her, Gaston had tried his best not to cry. Leon did not reprimand him for crying that day, but he did make another bold proclamation that day. After the priest and her distant family members had left them at the grave, his father had turned to him. "Son, you should know your mother was hardly a saint. If anyone be burnin' in hell, it's her. She never obeyed her husband, and that's one of the worst crimes a woman can commit. You saw for yourself, she never did what I asked, or she would do it poorly. And that's what made her so vile. But I had to settle, son. The prettiest women in town were all taken, and nobody would marry the son of a poor farmer. But nobody would marry her either. Her father had shamed the town when he ran away during the war, a coward for life. He never came home. So I did the right thing, and I married her. But she was a lousy wife. So, I'll be giving her the send off she deserves, son." He said, standing at the foot of her grave as Gaston stood to the side. Leon had then proceeded to piss on the grave of his dead wife. Gaston had been horrified. As years passed since her death, he had slowly forgotten his pleasant memories of his mother, instead remembering the vile things his father said about her.

Gaston took their large throw rug out the back door and threw it over the rail that lead down their steps. He took up a large branch and proceeded to beat the dust out of the rug, letting his anger and frustration out with it. He beat so aggressively that his body ached in pain. His muscles were still recovering from their beating and now had to endure a second one from Gaston himself. He pushed his body's limits far more than they needed to be. As he relentlessly got the dust out of the rug, it occurred to him that the only way he would be able to get through this life was if he hardened up. He couldn't let his father get to him anymore. His father couldn't call him weak if he became the strongest man in town. It was then that he decided to devote all of his spare time to getting fit. The cleaning tasks he already had were a good start, but he would push harder and faster.

* * *

Night after night Gaston pushed his body to limits he didn't think possible. He would do sit ups and push ups for hours after he had finished his chores. For years he worked tirelessly at building his body. For years he worked at it. The girls in the village began taking more notice of him. He basked in their attention and took advantage of how they all fell over to please him. He would eventually convince most of them to do his chores for him so he could spend all day and night training. He stopped going to school at thirteen, having given up on trying to understand the confusing words in the books they read. He had never comprehended them, and he doubted he ever would. It was when he was eighteen that he felt physically prepared.

It was his eighteenth birthday, in fact, when he decided to approach his father. His father was in a rare state of soberness that morning. He had slept off his hangover and was in a normal state of mind, at least temporarily. Gaston knew this was his one shot at redemption. He strode into the living room where his father was lazing around, doing nothing but poking the embers in the fireplace. "Father," Gaston said, his arms crossed purely to show off the thick muscles on them.

Leon turned to face him, "What do you want boy?"

"I'm hardly a boy anymore father."

"No, you're right, you're a weak little girl." His father said dismissively, starting to walk past Gaston toward the back of the cottage. Gaston grabbed his father's arm tight, "I am not." His father turned to look at him, "I am a man. And you cannot deny it anymore. You're weaker than me, old man, and you know it." He was practically hissing with anger. His father tried to shake his grip, but couldn't quite manage it. He instead growled up at his son who now towered over him by a good five inches, "Oh please, think you're so tough. I can still make you cry, boy."

"Those days are over, father," Gaston said, using his grip on his father's arm to throw him to the ground on his back. He put his boot on his father's chest, "I could crush you if I wanted to. And I do." He pushed down hard on his father's chest. Leon gasped and suddenly shouted, "Please! Stop!"

"Should I stop father? You never stopped when I was bleeding. You put me within an inch of death more times than I can count!" He screamed, stepping harder on his father's chest. He heard a rib crack. His father cried out in pain, but Gaston did not let up just yet. He wanted his father to know his helplessness that he had felt his whole life. He could see the fear and panic in his father's eyes, and it gave him a sick sense of joy. This was the revenge he had sought out for so long. But instead of ending his father's life, he finally let him go and stood beside his decrepit body. "Unlike you, I have a shred of mercy." His father couldn't reply, he was barely able to breathe through the pain in his chest, "Goodbye father, have fun with your miserable life." He spat at his father before storming out of the house.

He had no need for his pathetic excuse of a father anymore. He was going to do something far better with his life, be a better man than his weak father ever was. He wandered aimlessly into town, where he stumbled upon a large gathering of men. A sergeant stood in the middle of the square, telling the various men gathered there how much better their lives would be if they enlisted. Gaston listened intently. He considered that he currently had no home to go back to and no possessions. He hadn't a coin to pay for food either. He supposed he could easily woo one of the richer women in town to marry him and use their money to sustain him. But he didn't want that life. If anything, he'd sooner take Belle. But despite his numerous advances in the past year or so, she had consistently told him no. Perhaps a literal badge of honor was all he needed to prove himself to the most beautiful girl in town? When the sergeant finished his speech by asking who among them would join, Gaston raised his hand among a few others. The sergeant called them all forth to sign a document. The men formed a line. Gaston noticed LeFou standing in line in front of him.

"LeFou, is that you?" Gaston asked curiously. He had hardly seen LeFou since they were boys. When he had left school, that had been the last he had seen of the more studious LeFou.

LeFou turned and saw Gaston, "Who … Gaston?" He asked, utterly baffled by the man before him. He had remembered Gaston being significantly shorter, and a lot thinner when they had last met. But now, Gaston was incredibly burly and large, almost like a bear.

"Yes, it's me. I know, I look a bit different don't I?" Gaston admitted smugly.

"To say the least," LeFou smiled, "I can see why you would make a good addition to the army. You must have the strength of ten men."

"That's probably true." Gaston gloated. Over the past few years of women fawning over him, he had grown to enjoy compliments and adoration whenever he could find it. His parents never once paid him a compliment, and so he found himself thirsting for them. "Why are you enlisting, LeFou? With your smarts, I would have assumed you'd be a schoolmaster."

LeFou shrugged, "There's a lot of intelligence that goes into military affairs. I think I could be good at helping strategize, which is how wars are won after all."

"I think wars are won by who kills who first, but that's just me." Gaston said, "But you do make a good point. Brute strength cannot be the only part of winning. Someone has to be the smart one. You and I should team up. Your brain and my brawn and the enemy wouldn't stand a chance."

LeFou considered it for about ten seconds before agreeing. The two walked up to the sign-up sheet and wrote both of their names down for the same squad. The future suddenly looked a lot brighter for Gaston.


End file.
